


Dead Letters

by Stakebait



Category: Angel The Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Epistolary, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-26
Updated: 2010-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stakebait/pseuds/Stakebait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once Spike gets his soul, he writes to an expert for advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ways

  
June 28, 2002  
Bumfuck nowhere, Africa

You'll laugh like hell when you hear, and I don't blame you. No, I do. Once a day, at least, and sometimes as many as eight. I think my record is 87, but that was a hundred years ago. I'm better now.

No I'm not. Better is the one thing I now definitively know that I'm not. What I am is, used to it. Also preoccupied, half-drunk, and stuck in a bloody no-star hotel with a flat tire, a snoring whore, and a load of stolen stationery. Fuck knows why, if this thing is all it's cracked up to be, the first thing it does is make me lie all the time, even to myself. Who's this good for?

I've asked that question a lot lately. Mostly to myself, but sometimes I ask other people, just for variety. Starting with an overly smug trial demon, a gas station attendant, and two boys who wanted to kill me for my jeans last week. They had a good go at it, too. Promising lads, but I wasn't about to walk bare-assed through Zimbabwe if I could help it. The bullet holes in the shirt are conspicuous enough, not to mention the pale skin.

They didn't know either, or maybe they didn't understand the question.

Its been three weeks and I haven't figured it out yet. Not me is about all I've gotten it narrowed down to. Also not the gas station attendant. Maybe the whore. She's got the bed now, which is probably better than the boot to the arse she'd have gotten in the old days. Or her throat ripped out. They don't tend to care for that, although it might have been a kindness in the long run.

I can't sleep anyway.

At this rate I'll never figure it out. Living forever is all very well, but they just keep on fucking like rabbits and getting born faster than I can knock them out of the running, even here where they kill each other damned near as fast. It's a good thing too, I'm about a thousand miles from a decent butcher. There's a couple of Red Cross camps about, but they run out of blood damned near as soon as they get it.

Ah, fuck it. Dunno why I'm writing this anyway, except I'm out of whiskey and damned near out of cigarettes and there's nothing else to do until the sun goes down. You'll hear it on the grapevine eventually, might as well give you a chuckle now. I've got a soul, Angelus. Did it to myself, too, with my usual brilliant planning. There's your moment of happy for the day. Only not too happy, mind. Pretend I'm coming to visit you or something. That ought to take the edge off.

\-- Spike

*****

Bastille Day, 2002  
The Fool's Gold Coast

You know what I am, is bloody sick of following in your broody footsteps. Dru, alright, I'm used to that. Lots of girls want a bloke like dear old da. Not that I was, but she did the best she could, an' so did I. We managed alright till you came back to remind her what she was missing. Never was the same after that, no matter how much I hurt her.

But Buffy was a bit much, I thought. You must've laughed yourself sick over that as well. She never loved me, you know. I can't decide if that makes it funnier.

And I hear you did the trial thing as well, last year. If I'd known, maybe I'd have gone for something a bit more original, and we would both have been spared this whinging. Did yours have bugs? And a bloke with flaming fists? Pow. Zap. It was like being stuck in a bloody comic, only without the witty repartee.

Then again I don't suppose they spoke English. Dunno why the main bloke did. Hell, maybe he didn't. That'd be a laugh, huh? Buggered for a translation error?

You've never been to Africa, have you? So that's something different anyway.

I'm not surprised. The place is a pit. You could scourge it for decades without making any sort of a name for yourself, or even showing up above the general nastiness. Christ, the things people do to each other. What do they need us for anyway?

Why doesn't the soul stop them? It stops you.

Doesn't it? I can't go back until I know. It's not safe. I'm not safe.

Not that that's a reason for you to tell me. You don't owe me shit, I know that. And you must be glad as fuck that I'm away from her.

Still, I'll be here for a week or two, picking the pockets of the idle rich, in case you're so inclined.

\--Spike

******

  
The Congo, I mean Zaire, I mean the Congo  
August 3

Well that was a resounding silence. Like I said, I don't blame you. This time I even mean it. More or less. Sometimes.

I turned on her, you know. Just like she always said I would.

And you want to know the crazy thing? Alright, calm down, she's fine. Kicked my arse into the wall – I'm only surprised I didn't go through it. You can sit still for two seconds and listen to me blather, I'm no place I can hurt her again. And if you still want to kill me at the end of it, well, maybe I won't fight that hard. No promises, though. I don't make them anymore.

The crazy thing is I don't even know why. Didn't know even when I was doin' it. She wasn't being a bitch like her usual, cuttin' me down 'cause she hates how I make her feel, hates that I make her feel at all, even though she needs it. Hates that she needs me. Needed. She was bein' – damned near sweet, and soft. You know how Dru used to get sometimes, after? Only not crazy.

Not the same crazy, anyway. She came back wrong, Angelus, in more than just the obvious – she tell you I can hit her now? No one else, just her. An' the demons.

Anyway she said she had feelings for me. Didn't say what they were, mind you. Probably pity. But it was still more that I'd ever gotten from her, or ever thought I might. Said she couldn't trust me, but she seemed so sad about it – sad and far away, like she was looking at the best china all smashed. Or humpty fucking dumpty. Something that couldn't ever be put back together again. Like she used to look after mum died. And I just could take it, her giving up again before we'd even got properly started. She came back from the fucking dead. An' I know she didn't want to, an' I know it hurt like fuck, but doesn't that say something about giving up too soon? She used to be a fighter. She used to be so brave. And I was right there, and she wouldn't hate me or love me or try to reach for anything.

I thought – fuck knows what I thought. I thought I could break through that fucking resignation and touch her, bring her back to me from wherever the hell she goes. Make her react, make her need me again or hit me, which was practically the same thing with her. Fuck, its no wonder you were so hung up on the girl.

She said no. She always says no, just like she always punches me after. It's like a little ritual with us. A goodnight kiss.

Except not this time. And when I saw that horror on her face – I didn't stop. And then I did stop.

And I don't know why. I still don't know why.

I don't know why she waited so long to stop me, either. I keep wondering that. What was she waiting for?

I couldn't sit still, after. I kept waiting for her to come and kill me, or Harris, maybe. He wasn't any too pleased with me since I slept with his ex-demon. Serves him right for not treating her properly, if you ask me. Not that I'm one to talk, any more. But he didn't come and she didn't come and I couldn't stand what I'd done to her, and I couldn't stand what a bloody ponce she'd turned me into, and I hated her for it. I'm a vampire, dammit. We take what we want and if people get hurt along the way, well that's the icing on the cake, innit? We're not supposed to feel guilty.

But I do. I'd love to blame the soul for that – I do, mostly, which is the lying thing again. I haven't lied this much since I was human. But I felt guilty before. Even before I did – what I did. 'Cause I didn't save her. 'Cause I couldn't fix things for the Nibblet, or her mum. That's why I came to this godforsaken hole in the planet. I figured – he could fix it. Make me the one thing or the other so it would stop tearing me apart. Or kill me, which would fix things for a whole lot of people.

But I won. You know what works better than wanting a fight? The amazing power of not giving a shit any more. If I'd ever managed as much in the old days, you'd be picking up pieces of your arse from Prague to Paris.

And then I thought – fuck it. I don't care what happens to me, so let me get one thing right for once in my death. Stop thinking about what I want and think of what she needs. So I asked the bloke to make me what she deserved. And he did this.

Bloody supernatural practical jokers. Nobody deserves this. Not even me. Not even you. Sure as hell not Buffy. She deserves the heaven they ripped her out of. Fucking morons.

It doesn't even make any fucking sense. He said he'd make me what I was before. When was I this? Its not something I'd bloody forget. I was a fucking rotten poet with delusions of adequacy and all the spine of a blancmange, when I was human, but at least my conscience was clean. I never did anything wrong because I never bloody well did anything. And then I was a monster and Dru's lover and your – pain in the arse, and then I was the big bad Slayer of Slayers for a hundred years once you pushed off, and then I was a neutered thing, and the Slayer's laptog and her boytoy and her betrayer, but I was never any of this. Except pathetic, I guess.

Shut the hell up. You moped for a hundred years until the Slayer kicked your arse into gear. Least I had my fun.

I still miss it, you know. Hunting, killing, the thrill of fighting someone strong enough that I know I might lose. What's life without risk? The bloody good fight wasn't the same, but it was better than nothing. It was enough to keep me goin'. That and her.

Fuck, I need something to kill. I go looking for demons, some nights. But the worst bastards here are humans and I still have the chip. And anyway it's harder than you'd think to figure which are the good guys. Or maybe I'm just out of practice.

\--Spike

******

Ethiopia, August 8th

It's the little things you miss, you know? Walkin' into a demon watering hole and not having half the blokes in the place flinch like humans do from game face. How do they bloody know? Not like I could ever tell, around you. Well there was the moping and the throwing yourself on every passing cross, that was a clue, but you weren't bloody glowing or anything. Did somebody put a "this stupid fuck got himself a soul" sign on my forehead or something? Not like I could see it in the mirror.

Know what else I miss? Warm blood in the throat. Even from a bleedin' microwave is better than scavenging for cooling corpses. From the top of the food chain to fightin' the vultures. This is the life, I tell you. Found a girl tonight. Couldn't've been more than 8. Dead as I am and I couldn't take a bite. Turning into a bloody sentimentalist, I am. She was most likely starving to death any road. This way is quicker. Fuck knows there's more where that came from.

Bloody hell. She didn't even have shoes.

The hell is wrong with me? I miss my things. I miss the telly. I even miss people to argue with. I traveled light for hundred years and now I miss my bloody bed? I must be gettin' mental. Or old.

S.

*******

Cairo, August 17th

I hate you, you self-satisfied ponce. At least you have an out. Get yourself a happy and it's back to the glory days of murder and mayhem. So far as I know, I'm stuck like this forever.

She needed you, and you couldn't hack it, so you pranced off into the night just like you always do and called it noble sacrifice. She died, you bastard, because you weren't there and all she had was me. You know better than anyone that isn't good enough. She loved you.

She probably still does. You get under the skin, fuck knows why, you don't have brains enough to tie your shoes. Who does it for you now great grandmum's off playing with our girl?

How do you live like this? Does it help, helping the bloody helpless, prancing about like a superhero, knowing half of 'em won't make it even still and there's always another one you can't save? Does it stop, when you save as many as you killed? Does it ever stop? I didn't know it hurt so much. I didn't know anything could.

I should have known. I should have asked. I should have bloody well come after you when you left us, and not given you a fucking choice. I could've hunted for you. I could've done something. Or at least I could've tried.

That's the biggest joke of all. I'm supposed to be mediating on my myriad sins, and I can't even get that right. Oh, there's ghosts. All the people I ever killed. It's like the bloody cast of Oliver in here. But the one that won't shut up, apart from her, is you, and fuck if I know why.

S.

******

Still in De Nile, August 19th

How do I hate you, let me count the ways. I hate you to the depth and breadth my soul can reach, because I have one now, and I hate it, and it hurts, and I can't even wank properly because every bloody face turns away from me, Cecily, Dru, Buffy, I end up crying if I can even get it up at all. I pick up people sometimes. Boys, mostly. Girls are too close. Rough trade down by the warehouses, but never rough enough. I go for vamps, sometimes, and that's better, they're cool and quiet and brutal and sometimes I can remember long enough to come. Sometimes I stake them, after. Either way I feel dirty, and broken, but not broken enough. I miss you, you bastard. One of these nights maybe one of them will do me instead, and nobody will know.

******

Postcard: August 25, Casablanca

Bloody great film. Bloody crappy town. Bloody stupid bloke, too, if you ask me. Left the girl for her own good, didn't he? Except she's a grown woman and she should've got a say in what her own good was. Or even the chance to ruin her own life her own way, if that's what she wanted. Bloody great poofs please take note.

S.

P.S. Forget my last, will you? Too much tequila.

*******

Morocco, August 28

The hell? Grapevine says you've got a real son. Living, breathing, and everything. How the bloody hell did you pull that one off? And why the fuck did you pick Darla? Not that I'm not impressed that you convinced her to do anything for anyone other than herself, let alone nine whole months of it. But Christ, I thought you were finally over that bitch.

How did Buffy take it?

Have you seen her? And the Nibblet? I won't ask you to look after them for me. But look after them for them. I worry. With Giles gone, the rest of the Scoobies are pretty much useless, especially now that Red gave up magic for Lent.

Dawn probably hates me by now. Even if Buffy didn't tell her what I did, enough people have left her.

If I ever meet their da I'm stuffing live coals in his intestines, chip or no chip.

You'll be a good father. Don't worry.

You know technically the brat's my bleedin' uncle. Or I'm his, depending. Either way you might send a bloke some baby pictures. Just write in care of Willie's – he'll see I get it, eventually. He's an untrustworthy son of a bitch, but I promised him a case of absinthe and a case of ichor if he comes through – apparently there's a market, fuck knows why. And to pull his brains out his nostrils if he fails.

S.

******

Sunnydale, California  
September 7

I couldn't do it. Got home – had a friend watching my place. I unpacked, I went by their house – not to bother them or anything, just to make sure they're alright. Which I still don't know, because I saw the light in the window and – I broke, Angel. And ran. I can't do this. I don't know how.

*******

Salt Lake City, September 9

Can't a drink in this town for love or money. Can't get love for money either. If you're older than the damned religion, something's wrong. Can't even drown your sorrows in the literal sense, 'cause the bloody lake spits you back out. Old Joseph would have loved this set up, though. All you'd need to be the messiah is big feet.

\--Spike

*******

Detroit, September 13

Why this is hell, nor am I out of it. Where I go is hell, myself am hell.

Course, it doesn't hurt that I'm in Detroit.

Don't ask why, fuck if I know. It was on the way. To – I don't know that either. Away.

What's with the radio silence? I know we're not exactly friends, but I figured you for the bragging type. If nothing else that after a quarter millennium dead you're still the biggest prick on the block. I'm not gonna hurt the kid, if that's what's eating you. Even without the chip, if you're worried a vampire's kid doesn't count. Even without the soul, for fuck's sake. Hostages and innocents was your thing. I like someone who can give me a proper fight. If I wanted to kick your arse I'd show up and do it, like last time. I wouldn't mess about with bloody Rube Goldberg schemes to get you to play. Specially seein' as "Here I am, then, how about it?" always worked fine for us.

S.

*******

Miami, September 22

Seems like I'm always cold now. I never noticed it before, but now I do. Ever since I came home – back to the States, I mean. Florida helps, a bit. It stays warm late into the night, and wet, so you can feel the air falling around you, like a blanket, or a girl's hair... I'm staying in a hotel full of old people. Most of 'em have lived here for years, getting smaller and smaller. Everything is Art Deco – fuck, I remember when that was a revolution! Nothing stays young but us. It all used to be painted bright colors, but they sun bleach fast.

Do you miss the sun?

I used to see it in Buffy's hair. Like she caught it there and kept it for me. She grew it long, did you see? While she was – yeah. Long, smooth, bright golden waves, like a girl in a painting. I told her I liked it, liked the way it moved when I took her. Stupid me, she chopped it all off next day. She looked cute that way too – she'd be beautiful even if she shaved it, but don't give her any bloody ideas - but younger. More like she used to, when she was with you.

That was the point, I guess. But her face didn't match up. She didn't smile anymore.

She never did smile for me. Beg, yeah, cry, and shake, and punch and thrash and throw me into the walls – did you teach her that trick? But not smile.

I miss that light.

S.

*******

Out of the Frying Pan, into the Panhandle  
September 28th

I'm running out of land to run to. This is as close to nowhere as I can get, but here I still am.

Alright, you win. Fuck you. I'm asking. Go ahead and gloat all you want, just answer me. Not like I got anyone else I can ask. You help the bloody helpless, right? So help me. Please. It doesn't get much more helpless than this. Or more bloody pathetic.

I thought it would be over, one way or another. I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. You survived this. Tell me how.

S.

*******

October 14

Still here. Still waiting.


	2. Depth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike goes to great lengths to find out why Angel isn't answering.

  
October 23, 2002

Spike pulled up to the Hyperion Hotel. The lights were out, but that didn't faze him. If he knew his quarry at all, he'd be down in the basement, even though it was well past dark, brooding on his multifarious sins.

The chain on the door, though, that was a bit of a shock. Not that it took him more than a minute to break through. Just that it was on the outside. How bad had Angel taken Buffy's death – resurrection – defection – anyway? Bad enough that his human sidekicks had to lock him away... with a crap-ass bicycle chain? Something didn't add up here.

He tossed the remaining links aside, pushed the door open, and entered. It offered no more resistance, but then it wouldn't, of course. Other vampire's digs were all fair game. Although he'd have thought, with a human kid living here... still, if he was the only human in residence, maybe the invitation thing didn't kick in till the brat was old enough to talk and give one? Fuck knew there were enough other technicalities to the damned rules. Or maybe this place still qualified as a hotel, or a business.

Spike doubted it. From the look of things, there hadn't been much business done here lately. There was a thin film of dust over everything. The place even smelled empty. He checked the mailbox, wondering if he'd find all his bloody letters crammed in with months' worth of junk mail, or a forlorn salmon slip saying Mr. Angel should pick up his post down at the office proper from 9 to 4. But it didn't look like that much dust, and sure enough there were a few junk circulars in there, a bill, and not much else. Spike let them lie. He was there for answers, and maybe a spot of therapeutic bloodshed, not the accounts.

He walked over to the counter, where several tiny racks of business cards were lined up in a row. Just for the hell of it he drew a full house. It looked like Angel's little do-gooder machine was going gangbusters till he decided to shut up shop. He'd hired on new help, at any rate. Fred Burkle? Sounded like the bumbling hero of a fifties sitcom. Charles Gunn sounded like an explorer. Cordelia Chase, now that was a familiar name. Spike indulged a nostalgic fantasy of a sarcastic teenager with a long, graceful throat... fuck. The soul got him with a sinking feeling in his gut before the chip could kick in the headache, and he sighed. Right. Protect and serve, and not with a garnish. Check. Spike wondered idly whatever had happened to the Irish bloke.

Either Irish bloke, really. Where the fuck was Angel? He hadn't been particularly quiet coming in. Surely by now someone should be appearing behind him, where he least expected it, pointing a crossbow at him and asking what he was doing here? It was traditional, dammit. He spun slowly on his heel, hoping to surprise them, but they – he – remained obstinately absent. Spike was going to have to do this the hard way.

Fuck. He could smell out a trail as well as the next vampire, and he would know Angel's scent anywhere, but from the looks of it this trail had long gone cold. He was tired, and hungry, and thinking things through logically wasn't his strong point. He knew that. Spike wasn't the one running about pretending to be a bloody private dick. He glanced at the office phone, wondering if he could hire a real one, and saw one of the buttons at the top read "Angel's cell." He hit the button and listened to the random tones, wondering since when Angel had mastered any technology more complicated than the lever. He'd be getting email next, and then the world really would end.

It rang and rang, so long that he damned near jumped when he heard the familiar voice say, "It's Angel". He started to talk – babble really. "Angel, its Spike. Obviously. Don't hang up. I'm in Los Angeles. Where are you? You didn't answer my letters, and I need to talk to you –"

He felt incredibly stupid a second later when he realized that it was only the voicemail. Trust the broody one not to waste the breath he wasn't using on trivialities like telling you to leave a message. He clicked off without ceremony. Not like he had a cell phone. What the hell was he supposed to say, It's your enemy, ring me at your place?

Hmm. That was a thought. Spike picked the phone up again and dialed the office number – at least, he assumed it was, since it was the same on all the cards. Perhaps Angelus had changed the outgoing message to something useful, like "I've taken my new human son to see the old country. Back in November."

He listened to a few rings before he realized he ought to have been getting a busy signal – or hearing a ring in the room with him, if the place had more than one line. A breathless female voice answered – and this time it wasn't a recording. "Angel.. I mean, Gunn Investigations, we help the helpless, and the helpful, I mean, we also help those who help themselves, and... can I help you?"

Spike stood, blinking blankly as the torrent of words eddied around him. Only one made any sort of sense.

Gun? Oh – he shuffled the deck in his hands. Gunn. Angel's employee. Angel's – replacement? What the fuck was going on here?

The girl on the other end was still blathering. "Charles? There's nobody there. I mean there's somebody there because there's no dial tone and we heard the phone ring, but they're not talking. It's like a heavy breathing call without the breathing. Why would somebody call us up and then not even breathe? Do you think... Angel?" The voice on the other end had gone up at least an octave, to what Spike could only call a shriek. "Angel, is that you? Where are you? We've been so worried!" A low voice cut through her chatter. "Don't tell the world, sweetheart. It could be some trick of wolf, ram and hart."

At least that's what it sounded like he said. Spike didn't know why wildlife would be playing practical jokes on this pair, and he didn't care. His throat felt tight. "No" he said hoarsely. "Not Angel." He hung up the phone and then, on second thought, ripped it free of wires and threw it across the room. "Goddamn it, Angel", he said to the silence and the dust. "If you've gone and gotten yourself killed, I'll fucking kill you."

******

Spike was tired. Research had never been his thing, and these files looked liked they'd been organized by Dru in one of her more arcane moods, and kept up by one of her pet minions – after she'd removed his eyes for misbehavior. Clients, clients, more fucking clients – half of Los Angeles must be helpless, by this count. He couldn't get into the computer without a password, and neither "Darla,", "Dru", nor "Buffy" had gotten him anywhere. That made sense – what were the odds that Angel had set it up himself?

About the most useful thing he'd come up with yet was an itemized phone bill. There was a – so far – still unsmashed phone in the back office, but his mind rebelled at the thought of dialing all these numbers, asking each of the strangers on the other end if they'd seen a brooding bloke, about yay high, answers to the name of Angel? So sorry to trouble you, our detective agency seems to have mislaid its detective. Oh, who am I again? That's the other line, must run. Ring us if he turns up, would you? Only they can't, because apparently this phone forwards to a babbling bint and an ex-employee. There had to be a better way.

Briefly Spike toyed with the idea of teaming up with this Gunn person, but discarded it. If his retarded secretary was to be believed, they had no idea where Angel was. Either they'd tried to hunt him up, and failed, in which case they were useless, or they were too useless even to try. Besides, anyone who'd worked for Angel was bound to notice little things like room temperature hands and needing an invitation. Spike didn't fancy trying to explain who he was and no, please don't stake me, I'm harmless. At best, that would mean calling Sunnydale for the only humans who could vouch for his bechipped status – her house, even, with Giles off in England and Anya gone who knows where, sulking over Harris. No reason for them to do him any favors. And then they'd know where he was. He wasn't ready to face that yet. He wasn't sure he ever would be. At worst – it would mean talking about the soul.

There was no sign of the Burkle bloke – evidently he and Charles Gunn, Intrepid Explorer, had had creative differences. Probably over who to name the place after, now that Angel had gone walkabout. And who the hell was Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, whose name was in a bunch of Giles-style tomes on a shelf in Angel's office? Another employee, or had Angel simply got the lot at auction? The name seemed vaguely familiar, but Spike couldn't think why.

One minor mystery was solved, at least – wolf, ram, and hart was actually Wolfram &amp; Hart, a local law firm that Angel had apparently had run ins with in the past, judging by the thickness of their folder, and the occasional "That bitch!" scrawled in a loopy handwriting – not Angel's -- in the margins. Possibly they would know something. On the other hand, he couldn't think why they would tell him. The print swam in front of him and he rubbed his eyes. He couldn't think, period. And no wonder – by the light leaking in the front windows, dawn had come and gone. Wearily he headed up the stairs.

When he hit the top of the stairs, he paused. For the first time, he caught the scent of Angel. If that bastard was just upstairs sleeping it off, while Spike drove himself nuts trying to find him – Spike kicked open the door, hoping to at least wake him up and give him a good scare, but the bed was neat and empty. And now he realized how old and faint the traces were. Angel hadn't been here in a long time. Still, this was definitely his place. Spike opened the closet – yep, his all black wardrobe. Nice coat – Spike could almost fancy it as a replacement for his duster, abandoned at Buffy's. She'd probably burnt it by now. Pity the shoulders would come down to his own elbows.

Spike closed the closet again, not quite admitting to himself that he wanted to preserve the scent of Angel for as long as he could. He stripped off his clothes and tossed them onto a chair. Here's hoping the place had a bloody washer and dryer, he mused, they were about ready to go out for a pint all on their own. At least the electric was still on.

He didn't think too hard about why, in a hotel of fuck knew how many rooms, he'd chosen to bed down in this one. "If the bastard comes wandering home, it'll give him a nasty shock", he told himself, and "at least the bed's made up." He kicked off his boots and slid between the cool sheets – Irish linen, something Spike hadn't felt in years. The poncy bastard treated himself well. Trust him to buy sheets you had to bloody iron. Spike turned over, burying his face in the pillow, and breathed in deep. It must have been all those bloody boring papers, on top of a long road trip. For the first time since that damned demon had stuck a fist full of soul in his gut, Spike thought he just might be able to sleep like the dead.

******

October 24th

He'd tried, on and off, for hours, while pondering his next move, but there was never an answer at "Cordy's cell", just a annoyingly perky voice telling him the number he'd just dialed and to leave a message. He didn't. He tried the phonebook, but there were three columns of "C. Chase" and no Cordelias. He supposed it might come to that yet – better someone he knew than a bunch of strangers who were helpless by definition – but it could take days to eliminate them all. There had to be a better way.

"Fred's cell" reached the same dimwitted assistant as yesterday: evidently Gunn Investigations was frugal with its office supplies. That was fascinating information to have acquired, Spike was sure, if you were someone else. Preferably someone very boring, and without a truant vampire to locate. There was one more button on the speed dial, but the label had been so thoroughly crossed out that he couldn't decipher even a single letter of the name underneath. After a while, Spike decided to try it anyway. It wasn't as if he was going anyplace till the sun went down.

The phone rang for so long that he was sure it was going to be another bloody voicemail, when suddenly someone picked up. "I didn't know you still had any friends besides me," said a woman's voice on the other end, with a throaty laugh. "I don't have any friends including you," replied a hoarse British man, softly enough that he doubted a human would have picked it up. "It must be a wrong number."

"Are you sure? It could be your erstwhile associates, calling to beg your forgiveness," she said, "or more likely to get them out of another mess." "As I said, a wrong number," the man replied, this time loudly enough to carry to merely mortal ears. Spike sighed, wondering why his stupid sire had apparently thought it necessary to put dial-a-soap-opera on speed dial. Not that he didn't like Passions as well as the next bloke, but he had things to do. He was about to put the phone down, since the people on the other end were apparently far more interested in needling each other than, say, speaking into it, when the woman began again. "Really, Wesley –"

Spike cut her off. "Not a friend. Not an associate either. At least, not yet."

"I'm listening," came the woman's voice, much louder, and then the sound of a brief struggle. "Wesley Wyndam-Pryce," the man said into the reciever, a bit more precision in his tone. Which Spike had already figured out, but the confirmation was appreciated. Perhaps he was getting a break at last. "To whom am I speaking?" Fuck. Spike really should have come up with an answer to that one, but he'd spoken before he thought. Story of his life, that. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a stake. "Spike."

He'd assumed any one who knew Angel would recognize his name – from the bloody ring incident, if nothing else. But there was a resounding silence on the other end. Either he had delusions of importance or Angel hadn't confided in this bloke. Not like Spike knew what they were to each other. Hell, for all he knew Angel just called his local rare bookstore a lot. "William the Bloody?" he added helpfully. Maybe it was no Scourge of Europe, but after all they weren't in Europe, and in certain circles his name was known. If nothing else he'd done some of his best work a lot more recently.

"Ah, yes." Spike had had a lot of reactions to that introduction over the years – fear, anger, pleading, disgust. Rarely had he encountered someone who seemed simply to become very tired. Unless, of course, they knew him already. For some odd reason he was reminded of Giles, although even in an almost-whisper, the accent was a good drawer and a half above old Rupe's. "Just what I needed, to make this day complete. Another vampire."

"Another?" Spike hadn't meant to ask, but the word had already slipped out. "How many have you got, mate?"

The man ignored that. "If you're looking for a hostage to persuade" – the voice changed – "Angel to do your bidding, you could scarcely have picked a more useless candidate than I. Of course, you've no reason in the world to believe me."

Which was true, but Spike did, actually. Mostly because the man's voice held none of the harmonics of fear. Of course, it was hard to be properly intimidating over a cell phone, but he had the feeling he could be right there brandishing his fangs in the bloke's face, and he still wouldn't summon more than annoyance at the inconvenience. Spike smothered a sigh. He hated dealing with people who'd already been broken by someone else – it made them unpredictable.

"I'm not looking for a hostage. It's not my style." Spike let a bit of annoyance creep into his voice. "And if I did I wouldn't do it by calling you up and bloody introducing myself." That was a plan worthy of Harmony. "I'm looking for Angel. I'll do the rest myself." Not that Spike was sure what persuasion, if any, would convince Angel to help him. They hadn't precisely parted friends – well, any of the times they'd parted, really. But he was fairly certain a hostage wouldn't help. If it would, Spike had to admit, he'd consider it.

"Oh really?" Pryce had misinterpreted Spike's words, as he'd intended. There was no love lost between this man and his sire, that much was obvious. "Try the Hyperion Hotel."

He began spelling out the address, but Spike cut him off. "I'm calling from the Hyperion." Maybe that was a stupid thing to admit, but it was done now. "There's nobody here but me and the dust bunnies."

"Interesting." And the man did sound interested, in a cold-blooded sort of way. Not that Spike was one to talk. Spike laid it on the line. "I need your help to find him. I can pay." Which wasn't, strictly speaking, true, but Spike could make it so, one way or another.

"Interesting," Pryce said again. There was a moment of silence as he thought it over. "No, I don't think so."

"Look, mate, think about it," Spike urged. "I'll make it worth your while. We could meet, talk it over." Spike realized this man wasn't likely to know about the chip. At least, he hoped it wasn't common knowledge. "Someplace public and full of crosses, if you like."

There was another brief silence, into which the woman said something like "he could be useful." They both ignored her. Spike didn't see how he could be in the least useful, but then, he'd had that problem a lot lately.

"It's a... flattering offer, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline."

"Bullshit. You don't have to, you just don't want to be bothered." Spike realized belatedly that this probably wasn't the way to win the bloke over to his cause, but the reply was, if anything, dryly amused.

"I stand corrected. You're quite right, I don't want to be bothered. If Angel has left Los Angeles, that can only redound to my benefit. No pecuniary reward could be sufficient recompense for the... inconvenience of his return."

Spike didn't think he'd ever heard the word redound spoken aloud before, or pecuniary either. "And if he's hurt?" he asked. He couldn't quite bring himself to say "dead."

"Then," said Pryce, sounding dryer than ever, "I imagine he's saved us both a bit of trouble."

It was Spike's turn to be quiet a minute. He considered several responses. "No, as it happens," "none of your business," and "how'd you like to wear your guts as a necklace," to be getting on with. Dammit, he might stick Angel full of pokers if he felt like it, but that was family. This –

Reminded Spike of an approach he hadn't tried yet. "What about the kid? If Angel's gone, the brat's probably squalling his head off someplace. You got a grudge against him too?"

It sounded like the man on the other end was choking to death. Fuck, if he'd managed to kill a man long distance, with a chip and a soul, he ought to get a bloody vampire of the month pin... then he realized the other man was laughing. "Yes, actually. I think that would be... quite accurate."

Spike was starting to get annoyed with this bloke. Weren't humans supposed to go all soppy and sentimental over their young? He'd often had quite good luck threatening to off a babe. Even total strangers would offer themselves instead. Which was daft, of course, since with them dead there was no one to keep him from having the kid for dessert. But that wasn't the point. He knew the age of chivalry was dead, but this was a bit much.

"In any event, I hardly think it's likely. I imagine his ... the child is the source of Angel's defection. He probably took him away –" the other man's voice got even hoarser. Did he gargle with Brillo? "someplace safe."

Spike had to admit that made sense. Still, "And not tell anyone where he was going?"

"Didn't he?" The voice on the other end contained a note of distant satisfaction, rather as if he had proved a point in some academic discussion. "No, I can't say that I'm surprised. At that point, I imagine any other companions were... superfluous." Spike winced. Yeah, this bloke knew Angelus, alright.

"And you're just gonna leave it like that? He takes off, you're all useless dead weight, and he gets away with it? No reaming him a new one? You're not even gonna throw a drink in his face or anything? Where the fuck's the closure in that?"

Spike was trying to goad the man, yes, but he was also genuinely curious. Fuck if he understood why he hadn't hunted Angelus down himself when it became clear that he wasn't coming back.

Pryce's voice was ruefully amused. "You're rather good at this. Much better than Lilah." The woman muttered something angry in the background. "Shut up or get out." Pryce said, without changing tone in the slightest. "Had you come to me... earlier, you might even have convinced me. But no. My... career plans are perforce somewhat mutable at the moment, but of one thing I am quite certain: never again shall I join forces with a vampire."

Spike shrugged. Once they gave you a reason you were halfway in. "So don't. I'll work for you. However you want to play it."

Again there was that painful laugh. "Trust me, it doesn't help."

"So what would help? What do you want?" Spike knew he was breaking the cardinal rule of bargaining – never act like you gave a shit. But his best – his only – lead to Angel was about to hang up on him, and it wasn't as though there were some other vampire with a soul who could give him the user's manual.

"Nothing you could give me." The tone was flat and final. "But I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors." Now the voice was brusque and cheery, clearly preparing to say goodbye.

Spike found it surreal. The man wasn't sending him off to Eton. "No you don't." He couldn't help pointing out.

"Right again," he said. "I merely wish you and everything else associated with Angel far away from me. See that you stay there."

And on that warning (it was too matter of fact to be a threat) Pryce rang off without waiting for an answer.

******

Six hours later

Los Angeles was a helluva lot bigger than Sunnydale. Spike knew that. He'd been there before, after all, even if it had been a while. But that was a different matter from having covered every square inch of it. Or most of 'em anyway. For one thing, instead of good old Willie's, there were demon bars. Plural. For different sorts of demon, for vamps only, even special bars for wannabe's to mingle and try to get noticed, with the same utter lack of results that this procedure usually yielded: the prettiest got taken, and nobody got in the club. And of course, none of them bloody well advertised. You had to be in the know. Which would have been easy enough, given a couple of weeks to hang about the local scene.

Spike had a couple of hours. He'd been chasing about all night, buying information with cash, liquor, flirtation or his fists and fangs, whatever seemed fastest. The bike helped, but not enough. So far he'd learned that the underworld was glad as fuck that Angel was gone, which was not a surprise. Several people had claimed credit, but the smart money was still up in the air.

Spike himself was in a position to disprove one of the rumors – he'd cut that particular Greahel to pieces in an alley not long after sundown, after the stupid bastard had bragged to Spike about taking the traitor down. As if the rest of demonkind was one big patriotic club whose members all looked out for one another. Spike snorted. Either the bloke hadn't known anything, or he was a better actor minus most of his appendages than an intact Olivier had ever managed. Spike shrugged. He'd dumped most of the body into a dumpster. Maybe it would manage to reassemble itself before dawn turned it to clay, and maybe it wouldn't.

He'd heard that Angel's local opposite number was supposedly the solicitors who cried wolf, or whatever the fuck they were called. But if they'd dusted him, why were they offering a reward for him alive? It seemed a bit baroque to Spike. He'd also heard that any number of sketchy cults were out hunting for Angel's brat – some to sacrifice, some to worship. Some, probably, both.

Spike vaguely wished that he had a list of where they'd tried already, so he wouldn't waste time. He doubted Angel would be far from the kid if he could help it. But it wasn't worth infiltrating the fanatics for, and anyway if any of them could sense the soul he was for it. He'd had enough troubles with mistaken identity already. Apparently "the vampire with a soul" had made a lot of enemies in this town, and not all of 'em knew him by sight. Or could wrap their brains around the idea that there might be two vampires with a soul – at least, not until after Spike had wrapped their brains around a bottle or a barstool. Maybe it was just as well there were a lot of demon bars in this town – it would be a long time before he was welcome back to half of 'em.

Mostly he heard of more bars, where they told him about more bars, and so on. If he had a drink in half of 'em he'd be too plastered to make it to the other half. What Spike really wanted was one place where he could sit and nurse a bourbon and a foul temper, and watch the important players pass through, but the only place that sounded anything like that had been closed down a couple months ago. Just his luck. Oh, well. At least he'd copped the number of a local witch for hire in that last place. Admittedly off a tear-off poster in the gents, which didn't do wonders for his credibility, but it was a start.

Spike came out of a wine bar - a fucking demon wine bar, with ferns, yet - with a roar. The roar wasn't his, it was the bouncer's: big bloke looked like a rhinoceros, only not so intelligent. Wearing leather, which to Spike's way of thinking was redundant, but the man didn't take kindly to fashion critique, if his left hook was anything to go by. Spike went skidding across the pavement of the alley, hitting an oil slick and then his own bike, which fell over in the alley with a clatter, right at the feet of – fuck.

Spike scrambled upright. "What are you doing here?" he snarled.

"Now, now, is that any way to speak to your princess?" asked Dru. "Play nice, or I shall have to scold you."

Spike looked her over. Long dark dress, high-waisted and shot with silver. Curls falling from a ribbon drawn high on her head. A matching one held a locket tight about her throat. She looked like a debutante dipped in ink. She looked beautiful. At least Darla wasn't with her. Thank fuck for small blessings, Spike thought. Then he wondered if Darla had left her alone to run off and play happy families with Angelus again. He felt anger curdle in his stomach.

"I've been looking for you, Spike. I felt you, deep inside." Spike felt his body respond to that with a sense memory of what it was like to be buried deep in that cool wetness, her nails raking bloody trails down his back while that sweet child's voice babbled of thorns and candy. He shook it off. This was no time to get lost in the wonders of yesteryear.

Dru sounded sad. "It burns."

"But you like that, love," Spike pointed out. He took a step closer. She didn't back away, but she didn't smile either.

She shook her head. "It's the wrong fire. The lake is dry and the bed is all cracked. The ice breaks and the bird drowns."

Spike was too tired to drag this out. His voice was flat. "You know why."

"Oh yes." She sounded wise, and solemn as a little girl explaining the rules of some game. "You fought the fire and you lost."

"I won." Spike said, wishing he sounded more convincing even to himself.

"That's what the bird thinks too, but the ashes catch in his throat and he can't sing." The drowned bird? Spike wondered. Even with a hundred twenty years of practice, translating Dru to English was a hit or miss proposition at best.

"You left me, just like daddy. Left me all alone."

"I bloody well did not! You're the one walked out on me, pet." Spike knew better than to get into this argument again, but he couldn't help himself.

"You did, you know you did. Like father like son. Like calls to like. You followed the sun and burnt off all your skin and I can't see you any more."

It did feel like that, Spike had to admit. Raw. But he wasn't about to say so. She knew enough about how to hurt him as it was.

"And where is dear old dad?"

"He lives in hope." She gave a little pleased giggle and spun about in a circle. "Like when the naughty ones came."

"Where is he, Dru?" Spike pressed. If she could sense him from wherever the fuck she'd been, she could surely sense Angel. He reached for her arm, but she flinched away. "He tastes bitter. So many tears. So many years." She nodded as if she'd answered his question.

Years. Yeah. Spike could feel tears pricking behind his own eyes, blinked them back. He'd known, when he got the soul... but he hadn't thought he'd have to face her so soon. "Why did you find me then? If you knew... what I am?" His voice was raw.

Hers was distant, or maybe it just sounded that way in his ears, as if she was already walking away. "I hoped the shadows lied." She leaned in and brushed the ghost of a kiss over his lips. Spike blinked, hard, and she was gone.

*****

October 26th

He'd sold the bike to pay the witch, plus 20 percent for the house call, and the bitch was no help at all. She'd scryed, alright. It was dark. Big bloody surprise where a vampire was concerned. There were chains, which was a decorating essential in any of Angel's abodes. There's was pain, which was pretty much the fanged crusader's calling card. And there was hunger. As far as Spike could see, this was the vampire equivalent of "you will travel. I see you meeting a tall man. He will be important to you."

It was a safe bet, and probably true as far as it went, but you could say the same to just about anyone. Right out of tarot cards for morons. He'd have figured her for a phony if he hadn't recognized a certain dark eyed look that Red used to get. That and not all the highlights in her hair had come out of a tub of Manic Panic. She couldn't pinpoint Angel's location to nearer than 100 miles, she'd said, mumbling something about distortion and magical interference. He'd growled and flashed yellow eyes at her, but eventually he'd paid. He had enough beings with powerful mojo ticked at him already.

But that didn't get him any forwarder. It was dark now, and he wanted to go out and beat the crap out of more demons for information. The problem was, they didn't have any. He needed to think. So he paced up and down in the Hyperion's deserted lobby, lit only by the glowing tip of his cigarette. The place might still have juice, fuck knew why, but there was no sense advertising his presence to anyone who might come hunting. He thought better in the dark, anyway. He had that maddening tip of the tongue feeling, like there was something someone had told him that would point the way, if only he could remember.

*******

Spike had been in plenty of fights that felt like they were underwater. Slow, balletic, eerily graceful – he knew the drill. Unfortunately, it turned out that actual fighting underwater was more like fighting in a great honking tub of molasses. The stuff dragged at his clothes and his limbs, heavy as mud, stealing momentum and force until his punches looked more like Three Stooges pantomime than unnatural force. And when he did manage to connect, he shoved himself backward and away as much as he thrust his target. His feet scrambling for purchase on the bottom did little more than kick up a cloud of silt, muddying the murky water still further. He could still see the light he'd brought, tied to the line that hung just out of reach, but it illuminated only itself, not the terrain. Fuck knew where the tools he'd brought were – probably lost in that first unexpected surge. Pity that, they might have come in useful.

Something crunched and skittered out from under the sole of his boot. He wasn't expecting it, and he flailed frantically to right himself. Too late – the momentary distraction had given his quarry all the opportunity he needed. Instead of the hysterical thrashing that had bruised Spike from throat to shin, there was suddenly a grip like iron bands around his thighs, another pinning his arms to his chest, while a third – what was he, a bloody squid? – bent Spike's head sharply back. He felt the rip of flesh, the sting of salt, and then he could only stare into the light dimming above him, as strength ran out of him like the tide.

Blood. Blood in the water. Spike opened his eyes. He had no idea how much time had passed – it was always night down here. He groaned. His bruises had stiffened up, and it hurt to move. Even his eyelids hurt. He could feel the weight of the water holding him down, and it would be easy to give in, but he had to go up, up to – light. Boat. The light was still here, which meant the boat was still here, which meant Angelus hadn't taken it and left him to – Angelus. Fuck. Light, check, boat, check, bloody great box, hacked open, check – but insane vampire who was more trouble than he was worth, no.

It would be just like the idiot to spill Spike's blood all over the place like a calling card and get himself eaten by a shark while Spike was too out of it to help him. Spike wondered idly if immortality would trump digestion. Maybe Jonah was a vampire? In theory, anything that wasn't fire, wood to the chest or a decapitating blow was survivable. In practice, he couldn't imagine how that would work, and he was just as glad not to find out. He imagined acids breaking you down again as fast as you could heal up, and shuddered. It sounded like hell.

Except that didn't make sense – surely any self-respecting shark would have taken Spike for dessert. It was what he would have done himself. A surge of anger lent Spike momentary strength. He would be damned if he had ruined his boots for nothing. Angelus was down here somewhere and he would find him and haul him back if it killed them both – and then, if day didn't immolate the pair of them as soon as they broke the surface, he was going to sleep for a week.

It turned out to be rather anticlimactic. Spike practically tripped over Angel in the first five minutes. The bloody great prat had actually crawled back into the box and curled up into a fetal ball. Spike shivered, and not from the seeping chill of the water. It wasn't like Angel to go back to something he'd been so desperate to get out of – well, if you didn't count Darla. It wasn't like him to give up at all.

He swam over – had he thought this was like molasses? It was more like lead – and touched Angel's shoulder. The ball quivered but didn't untuck. Fuck me, Spike thought. "Angel," he tried to say, but his lungs had long since filled with brine, and not even bubbles came out. He tried to turn Angel's head to look at him. He offered no resistance, but those dark eyes seemed to look right through him, as he awkwardly tried to mime swimming to the surface. Spike gave a couple of nervous glances over his shoulder, but there was no denizen of the deep there, toothy or otherwise. Whatever Angel was looking at, it was nothing he could see.

Obviously this was not the moment for charades. Spike grabbed Angel's arms and tried to pull them apart – he was weak as a mortal, but a well-placed kick distracted Angel enough that he could settle them around his own waist. He clasped Angel's hands together behind him, and hoped desperately that he would get the message – he'd bloody held on well enough before – because there was no way that Spike would be able to both hold him and pull them both upwards. They were both far too waterlogged to float, and he wasn't sure he had strength left to launch them up to the rope as it was – except that he had to, since neither one of them would get any stronger feeding off lobster.

Angel seemed to be clinging on, for a miracle. It was about bloody time something about this farce went right. But Spike's first kick barely pushed them a foot off the bottom before settling gently back. He felt the pricking of tears behind his eyes – talk about bloody coals to Newcastle. He forced himself to stop and think, before he exhausted himself in frustration. The bottom was too soggy, that was the trouble. It was like trying to jump out of quicksand, and not so much as a rock in sight. The only solid thing for miles was probably the – oh. right. Spike carefully clambered up onto Angel's erstwhile prison, making sure the other vampire still hung like a barnacle about his waist, and then used the last of his reserves to drive upwards towards the light.

******

After that it had just been dull, hauling the pair of them hand over rope-burned hand until they broke the surface. It was slow, tedious going, the sort of thing that ought to be skipped lightly over in a montage with some inspiring music in the background – where the hell was that singing demon when you needed him? But it wasn't difficult. Even weakened as he was, the water had held them up well enough. It was only the last bit that was tricky, trying to unclasp Angel's hands and convince the other vampire to pull himself up into the little boat and flop over the side so he could do the same himself, and then lean over the edge and let salt water pour out of his nose and mouth. Angel was sitting in the bottom of the boat, staring at the sky as if he'd never seen one before. Come to think of it, it probably had been a while at that.

Spike glanced up himself. He might not be on speakin' terms with the stars like Dru was, but he didn't mind admitting he was damned glad to see them. It was still full dark out. Spike was amazed. He would have sworn they'd been underwater for hours. Then again it could be the next night for all he knew. He didn't care, either. He was just grateful that the sky wasn't yet lightening in the east, so they wouldn't have a frantic dash back to shelter. He'd brought a good thick tarp, but even though Angel's berserker strength had been followed by lassitude, he was still trembling, and something told Spike that getting him to lie still for 12 hours in this state would have been next to impossible.

The thought reminded him, though, of what else he'd brought. He shoved the metal detector overboard – it had served its purpose, and it was banging his knee - and fished out a few packets of blood. He could have fancied a dozen himself, to make up what he'd lost, but he tossed them at Angel instead, who caught the first with lightning quick reflexes and had torn it open and all-but finished it by the time the second and third landed in his lap.

Spike had meant to start up the outboard motor – and thank fuck for internal combustion, he was in no shape just now to row – but found himself watching Angel drink instead. The vampire he'd known was still in there, somewhere. It was only a bag, of course, but the speed and savagery was still reassuring. And – other things. Spike shifted uncomfortably. It had been a long time since he'd watched Angelus feed, longer still since he'd had the luxury of a moment to stare as much as he liked, without fear of being caught and skewered with a sneer of Darla's or his own. There was something about blood on those lips – it was Pavlovian, was what it was. A hundred years later, ring the bleedin' bell and – yeah.

It didn't change anything of course, not the century apart and not the scant weeks together, not the betrayals or the pokers or the ghost of a blond Slayer who couldn't stay dead that lay between them. But still, Spike waited until Angel had finished off the last swallow and licked those lips clean before he turned on the motor and started for home.


	3. Out of Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel is home, but not exactly free.

The car had been the first snag. Alright, it had seen better days, but was this the moment for a bit of classic Angelus snobbery? Excuse the fuck out of Spike for not having had time to rent a suitably posh chariot before he rode to the rescue. Angel was unmoved by his arguments, however. Angel, to tell the truth, hadn't even seemed to hear them. He hadn't made his usual snide comments about Spike's lack of discrimination, though. He'd simply balked like a recalcitrant pit bull and refused to get in. His arms were locked rigid on the roof, and no amount of shoving would budge him. If he didn't shift his arse soon they would both be done to a crisp when the sun came up and – oh. Right. Spike ran a hand through his drying hair. He was a bloody idiot. Of course Angel wasn't any too eager to get back into another metal box.

Except that he had been. "You liked the other one fine enough." He said, failing to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "Should I have hauled it up for you to ride in? We could tie it to the roof." That was only sarcasm, of course. Even if he hadn't been drained, he doubted he was strong enough, and in any case something that heavy would have swamped the small craft for sure. Hell, it was about the same size.

He cranked down all the windows as far as they'd go, hoping that would be enough to ease the panic. "Alright?" he asked softly.

Angel carefully passed his hand through the open space, as if he was making sure it wasn't a trick, and then relaxed all at once and allowed Spike to fold him into the passenger seat and slowly, not making any sudden moves, close the door behind him. Spike's jaw set as he slide himself into the driver's seat and sped away, leaving the boat abandoned on the shore behind them.

He had bigger things to worry about than his deposit. Like the fact that Angel hadn't objected to the punk music that automatically poured out of the speakers, or to the cigarette he'd lit as soon as they were underway and he could spare a hand to grope in the glove compartment for a fresh pack. He hadn't, in point of fact, spoken at all. Spike jabbed at the unfamiliar buttons until sudden silence rang in his ears.

He glanced over at Angel. "You alright there, mate?" Spike waited, but Angel didn't answer. "Alright, stupid question," he admitted. Silence filled the car again. Spike watched the traffic intently. He was almost afraid to look over at Angel again. He tensed, waiting for questions, like "what the fuck are you doing in my city?" or "why hasn't Buffy killed you yet?" or "what took you so long?" but there was nothing. Somehow that was worse.

"I didn't know." Spike said abruptly. "I thought you just didn't want to talk to me. Fuck knows I understood. I didn't know what happened to you," he repeated defensively. I still don't, he added mentally, but it didn't seem like the right moment for the third degree.

He flicked the remains of the lit cigarette out the window. They were on the highway now and the wind was loud in his ears. "I didn't know," he said almost inaudibly to the tail lights ahead.

Finally the still form next to him stirred a little, and made a sound as though he'd forgotten how to talk. Angel coughed, and this time it was audible, if shaky. "William?"

Christ, he sounded surprised. And confused. And young, which made no bloody sense at all. "Spike!" Spike opened his mouth to say by habit, and bit it back. Fuck, what did it matter? "Yeah, mate, s'me. The proverbial bad penny."

"Where is he?" Angel's voice was full of anxiety. Spike would have said fear, except Angel was never afraid. "Where is she?"

He didn't know who Angel was talking about, so he answered the tone rather than the words. "S'just me. You're safe now." A bitter smile twisted the corner of his mouth as he imagined what Buffy would say to that. "Take a moment to love the irony."

He thought about resting a hand on Angel's leg, to reassure him, but he hadn't done that since – ever. Not like that. Angel didn't need reassurance.

"We'll be home soon," he said instead.

Angel didn't answer.

*******

"Jesus fuck." Spike swiped ineffectually at the spreading wet stain that covered the front of his jeans. "What is it with you, mate? I can't go two hours without being soaked to the bloody skin." His shirt had long since been discarded in a sopping puddle in the corner.

"You used to be the fastidious one. Whatever happened to 'maintaining proper standards?'"

Angel was naked, which was distracting enough. The cuts and bone-deep bruises from where he'd struggled against the steel bindings wound their way up his upper arms, around his ribs, across his thighs. He was huddled on the tile floor. He was also, if anything, less wet than Spike.

"For fuck's sake, it's just a shower. You can't tell me dried salt on your skin is comfortable."

Angel seemed to consider for a long moment before answering. "Salt."

Spike sighed. "Yeah. Salt." he ran a finger down Angel's chest and held it up to illustrate, then held it out into the flow of warm water. "No more salt." He surveyed Angel for signs of understanding. "Done. Finished. Washed away."

"Not finished. Not yet. So much to do. Missed so much. Have to tell him..." he was off again, babbling, the anxiety back in his eyes. Angel babbling. Spike felt like he'd woken up to find that he drank carrot juice and had a pulse. The world didn't work that way.

"It's not true. I wouldn't have. Never. Not that. But they told me... like last time. No hope. Don't deserve it. All of them except for her. And there was no snow any more, but the sun didn't come. I waited and waited but it didn't come." Angel's eyes finally focused on Spike. "Only you. You came."

Spike couldn't think of a thing to say. He hadn't meant to save anyone. That was Angel's gig. He'd only come because he needed something he couldn't get at any other store. He'd only come because he couldn't think of anyplace else to go.

"C'mon," he said finally, hauling Angel to his feet and pushing him bodily into the shower. He stepped in after him, blocking his escape. The jeans were a lost cause anyway. He grabbed a bottle of some kind of poncy bath stuff, dump a generous slick of it onto a cloth, and wrapped Angel's hand around it. It felt, somehow, less invasive than running his hands over skin he hadn't touched in three years -- and never with the soul, unless implements of torture counted. "Let's get you clean."

*******

Spike woke with a start and glanced at the clock. Bloody hell, it was starting again. Faint, which was a tribute to the old plaster walls of this place, even if they were cracking. But he could hear it. Once you knew what it was, it wasn't a sound you could ignore.

Spike gave it a go, though. He groaned, rolled over, and flung up an arm to anchor his pillow over his head. It had been a long night, mostly spent pouring blood down Angel's throat. Not literally, thankfully, but bad enough even still. Angelus always used to say Spike just talked to hear the sound of his own voice, and Spike guessed it must be true, because Angel sure as hell wasn't answering. Most of the time he didn't say anything at all, just stared into space, or talked to people that weren't there.

"Sorry," he kept saying, "I'm sorry," and "no, please". And once "take me, but let him go."

After that Spike had to go beat up the bag he'd found in the basement for 20 minutes and hope to fuck that Angel didn't take it into his head to wander off again while he was gone, because he couldn't stand that self-sacrificing crap. If that was what having a soul meant, he wanted no part of it.

Not that it mattered what he wanted.

Bloody hell. Spike rolled over and crushed the pillow to the other ear instead, as if that would make the sound go away. It didn't. Spike groaned, sat up, and flipped the light on.

It had made sense at the time, to take a room just down the hall from Angel's suite. But now he was starting to wish he'd explored a bit, found something at the other end of this great barracks, and so what if it had been dusty and shut up for years. At least he wouldn't be able to hear Angel – you couldn't call it screaming. Keening, maybe, would be closer, except it was lower and more broken than that. Three times now he'd just dropped off and then – this. Angel must be having nightmares.

Fuck knew Spike knew what that felt like. Half the reason he'd been drinking his way across two continents was to pass out and not dream. Being human, or killing 'em. He wasn't sure which was worse. He woke with his cheeks wet more often than not. But not like this.

Christ, who could do this to Angelus? Angel was the nightmare other people woke from screaming.

Whoever it was, Spike was going to kill the bastard, chip or no chip, soul or no soul. Admittedly, it was artistic – hell, it was worthy of Angelus himself, in the old days – but that wasn't the point. Spike needed Angel now, and somebody had tried to take him away. Spike didn't take kindly to that.

Fuck it. Spike got up and walked down the hall to Angel's door. He banged on it. "Keep it down in there, mate. Some of us need our beauty rest."

Nothing. He shoved the door open. Angel was thrashing. He'd gotten himself thoroughly tangled in his blankets and Spike could see rents in the fabric. "Won't the poof be ticked when he's in his right mind again?" Spike mused. "He can't pin it on me. I was a gent – took my boots off and everything."

Spike sat down on the vacant side of the bed and leaned over to touch Angel's cheek – just about the only part of Angel he could see. "Wake up, mate. S'only a dream."

Then he was on his back and Angel was straddling him, choking him with a punishing grip, forcing a pillow down onto his face. He might as well have stayed in his own bed, for all the difference it made.

"Kill you!" Angel growled, and then Spike could have sworn he added, "I'm Angel," which was a little self-evident, even for him. Must be the down blocking his ears. With a grunt of effort, Spike rolled the pair of them over and tossed the pillow aside.

"You're a bit late for that," he said as well as he could, with Angel's hands still fastened round his throat.

"Fucking kill you."

Spike was losing patience with this game. He brought his own hands up to squeeze the bruises on Angel's wrists, as hard as he could, until he let go. Then Spike pinned Angel's arms above his head with one hand – that wouldn't hold more than a couple of seconds, but it was long enough to slap Angel across the face.

"Wake up, Angelus. Kill me if you want it so bad. Least this'll be over. But you can't do it with a sodding pillow."

Angel's eyes focused on him, and Spike realized belatedly that he wasn't in game face. That was strange. "I was... I thought you were..."

The silence lengthened and Spike realized that was all there was to the sentence. He released Angel's wrists, gave them a half-hearted rub. He hadn't done the wounds there any good. "Yeah well. I'm not."

Spike was suddenly very conscious that he was naked, and straddling Angel, who was also naked, if you didn't count the tattered remnants of his poncy sheets. He rolled off abruptly. "You were dreaming."

"I can't tell... feels so real, and then it just melts away again." Angel's hand gripped the fabric. "Is this real? Am I here?"

"You're here." Spike thought about adding, "I'm here," but it wasn't like Angel would find that a comfort. More like another bad dream.

He got up from the bed, started rummaging about in the closet until he hit on another blanket to replace the one Angel had ruined. He threw it at Angel's chest. Fuck if he was gonna tuck the bastard in like the undead Florence Nightingale. The folded blanket bounced off his chest and onto his lap. Angel made no attempt to catch it. "There you go, mate. I'll be goin' now. Third door on the right, if you decide you want to kill me again. Might want to use a stake. And don't bother to wake me up first."

He stared at the darkened ceiling of his room for a good twenty minutes. There was a crack that led all the way from one corner to the old fashioned light fixture – he wondered where it had started. A narrow beam of light swept across it from a crack in the curtains. He got up to fix it – no sense in courting a sunburn on top of everything else. He lay down again, but the room was too quiet. He slid into game face, straining his senses as he waited to hear. It was just a matter of time before it started up again.

Oh what the hell. Might as well be on hand to stop it.

He opened the door quietly this time, and closed it behind him.

"Shove over, ya ponce. Your feet are cold."

*******

There was a little girl, freckled, her hair in braids. Dress, clean but patched, in an unflattering blue. Speech, rude, verging on incomprehensible, it was so thick with cockney rhyming slang. Snub nosed. He'd killed her mum – or maybe her sister, they aged fast on the street. The little one had spit at him and Dru had been delighted. She wanted to keep her for a pet. So they had, for a while. Killed the brats of lords and ladies and given her their party frocks to wear while she played in the muck of the graveyard. Fed her on cakes till she had tantrums. She would fly at them sometimes, face contorted with rage. She'd stabbed Dru in the thigh with a fork once.

Dru was bad with pets.

Spike wished he could remember her name. There were so many names he'd forgotten, and ones he'd never heard: the ones that died alone, in alleys and dance halls and cars, with no one to call after them, or know where they'd gone. He'd made a list of the ones he could remember: made it, tore it up, and made it again. It was so few, a mere handful of sand from a cold beach. He wished he could draw, like Angelus. He could make a bloody gallery of mug shots of all the people he'd killed. At least the ones whose faces he could remember.

Some of them must have had families. Children waiting for them. Or parents, depending. Lovers who cursed their name and burned their letters, thinking they'd been left without a word.

Spike knew what that felt like.

He could find them, he supposed. Use the internet. Willow made it look easy enough. Hire a detective. Hell, hire Angel, assuming Angel would speak to him once he was back to his righteous self. And tell them what? Its not that he didn't care about you, its just that he couldn't call because I ripped his throat out and laughed, and fucked my lovely wicked girlfriend in the spreading pool of his heart's blood? He was sure that would be a great comfort to the bereaved.

Next he'd be setting up as a bloody funeral director. Fuck knows he knew the cemetery routines like the back of his hand.

He could give them money, if he had any money. He could get money. He could –

Go close the blinds before Angel burned his fingers. He heard a stifled moan. Alright, go close the blinds before Angel burned his fingers again. This was as bad as when Tara'd had her brain sucked. What kind of a stupid plan was that anyway, fleeing from danger in a clapped-out Winnebago, for fuck's sake, just because the Slayer wouldn't leave her friends behind – oh.

Great. He'd found something the soul was good for – Monday morning quarterbacking. That was vastly useful. He got up from the ottoman and walked over to the front window, where he'd left Angel staring out at the street. It wasn't a particularly interesting street, even to Spike, and Angel had surely seen it before, but Spike wasn't about to argue. It kept him occupied.

Spike had hoped that when Angel woke and had had the rest of the hotel's supply of blood for breakfast – minus a bottle or two for Spike - he'd be up for telling Spike something useful.

Alright, maybe it was a bit soon for "what's your secret?", but he'd thought, "the hell happened to you, mate?" might have produced something more useful than "it's my fault. I lost him. I let him go." But evidently not. Angel apparently wanted to bond with the landscape, so Spike left him to it. It was easy enough to get lost in his own thoughts these days.

But this had to stop. He closed up the blinds and caught Angel's hand before he could snatch it away. It was smoking a bit, but not too bad. "Sunlight." he explained. "Its bad for vampires. Vampires. That's us." He caught Angel's expression.

"You knew that. Alright. Not like I can be sure these days. But if you knew that, why the fuck did you do it?"

"Look. Can't touch. Not allowed. Can't feel anything." His eyes met Spike's. "Have to feel something."

Where had Spike heard that before?

"Can't you touch something that doesn't bloody hurt?"

Angel was quiet for a moment. "Always hurts."

Spike didn't have an answer for that. But he led Angel away from the window.

*******

He went out as soon as it got dark. He was oddly reluctant to leave the hotel. Or maybe it wasn't so odd, at that. The last thing Spike wanted to do was run into any more blokes who had it in for the souled one – or anyone he'd made promises to when he was hunting for Angel.

He hadn't meant to skip out on them, exactly. But he'd bargained on an Angel who could repay his own debts – or at least one who could be left alone while Spike did the odd favor here and there. As it was, Spike was afraid of what he'd find when he got back. Angel curled in a ball on the floor, twitching – that was a fine start to any evening. Or worse yet, Angel gone, with no explanation. He'd have to start this whole bloody thing over.

Spike stepped on the gas. Maybe he should have brought Angel with him. Except that was two to protect, if it came to a fight, and if not, anything Angel came out with was bound to complicate a simple transaction. Get five cartons of cigarettes and as much blood as he could carry, and get home.

He wondered, for the third time, if he should have called Angel's human friends to look after him. He'd even started to, just before he set out, and hung up before they answered. They couldn't very well have less of an idea how to go about it than he did. He'd nursed Dru back to health, of course, but that was just the physical. Her craziness was permanent, as much a part of her as her lovely lithe form or her second sight. Angelus did good work. This time he wasn't even sure what, exactly, was wrong, let alone how to fix it. But there had to be a way. Trust Angel to be out of commission just when Spike needed him functioning.

That was the thing. He suspected they'd be only too happy to take over Angel's care while he was gone, but letting him back in? Not bloody likely, not if they were anything like the Scoobies. He'd be lucky to get within a hundred yards of his sire. And he'd waited too long already. When Angel was finally ready to talk, Spike planned to be on hand.

Spike pulled up in front of the hotel, grabbed the bags from the backseat of the junker and ran up the steps. he threw the door open, but the lobby was empty. Fuck.

Don't panic, Spike reminded himself firmly. It hadn't been long since Angel had left: his scent still lingered in the air. He dumped all but one of the bags on the counter and took the stairs two at a time, crashing through the door of the suite – to find Angel looking through his drawers, his things spread out on the bed. He was examining each item as if trying to remember where it came from.

Spike stood in the doorway, feeling foolish. "Oh," he said finally. "Hey. I'm home."

Angel walked towards him, the stuff on the bed forgotten for the moment, and Spike shoved the bag into his arms. "Here, put this in the kitchen. I'll bring up the rest." He could have sworn, as he turned away, that Angel gave a half smile.

******

Spike woke up to a sensation he hadn't felt in years: Angel's hard cock pressing into the hollow of his hip. They'd touched, of course – hell, they'd clung to each other in the dead of afternoon when the nightmares hit. That was the point of this little slumber party, and it wasn't always Angel who was crying, either. But not like this.

Still, it was bound to happen sooner or later. Spike wondered what – or more precisely, who - he was dreaming about. Mostly likely Buffy. He done the same a time or twenty himself, since he'd left. Before – he'd lost count.

His eyes pressed even tighter shut, Spike lay very still. Surely Angel would move in his sleep, in a minute.

He made himself think of being wrapped in layers of mud soaked canvas. Sealed in carbonite. Trapped under rubble. Trapped under Xander. Anything that was immobile and completely unsexy. He bit his lip. He had played this game back in Sunnyhell, while Angelus got his rocks off fucking the paralyzed, resentful boy who couldn't stop him and couldn't even enjoy it, and Dru watched, and laughed. It was the perfect bloody sex for him – pure power. And if Spike's plan had any chance at all, he had to be the perfect partner. Which meant all the while his strength was coming back, he had to pretend that nothing had changed at all.

Go limp, don't fight, don't even twitch no matter what he does, so long as it's below the waist. Even when there was no lube but Spike's blood. Even when he brought the knives, or the brands. But that was the easy part. Angelus had trained him in that himself. A long time ago, but it was like riding a bicycle. A burning bicycle with a bayonet for the seat, but still. Once you learned, you could never really forget.

The hard part was pretending not to feel, but he'd learned the tricks of it. Closing his eyes so Angelus couldn't see the pupils darken. Biting his lip not to moan. Not to beg. And thanking the fucking Powers that he didn't breathe. Not being able to move back into Angelus, to grip him just a little tighter and hear the thickened brogue in his voice that meant he was close to the edge – now that was torture. And people thought Spike didn't have patience.

Spike realized he'd bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood, and his hands had curled into fists. Maybe this wasn't the brightest memory to entertain right at the moment. But it didn't matter. Angel would move any second now.

And so he did – shifting his hips into Spike's. That was no help. Spike stifled a moan. His own cock was getting harder by the minute. He opened his eyes, and found Angel looking back at him. He reached a finger out and wiped the blood from Spike's lips.

The gesture reminded Spike of Dru. Or maybe it was the expression – innocently curious, almost childish – that sat so oddly on Angel's face. And then Angel licked the finger clean and Spike stopped being able to think at all.

Spike rocked his hips into Angel's. Maybe they'd been right about his patience after all. Goddammit, Angel barely knew his own name, let alone Spike's. But it had been a hundred fucking years since he'd been able to do this right. And it had never been his decision. And the finest cock in Irish history was brushing against his own aching erection.

Spike leaned forward and brushed his lips hesitantly over Angel's. And Angel, not hesitantly at all, licked at them, and then sucked at the last drops of blood. Spike groaned. Maybe Angel didn't, but his body remembered. What would it hurt to get the poor bastard off? Fuck knew there was little enough that made him happy. It would practically be a public service.

Spike worried about the curse – it would be just his bloody luck to come for the soul and then do for it before he could find out a damned thing. But only for a second. If just getting his rocks off would do it, Angelus would have lost the soul decades ago, from wet dreams alone if he was too bloody pure or proud to jerk off. And however the fuck he'd managed to get Darla pregnant, Spike was pretty sure it didn't involve immaculate conception.

He wrapped his fingers around the finest cock in Irish history, and Angel made a soft sound. It didn't sound like no.

Spike kissed and licked his way down Angel's throat to the broad expanse of his chest – you could build a city on that thing. He circled a nipple with his tongue, teased it with his teeth, and Angel's cock moved into his hand. He began stroking, slowly, taking his time, rediscovering the sweet spots that made Angel whimper. Oh yeah. There, just under the tip, and there, behind his balls. How could Spike have forgotten? It was like going back to your hometown after fifty years. Except not much had changed, and it sure as hell didn't seem any smaller.

He bent his head and took Angel's cock in his mouth, and groaned around it. His own hips ground into the sheets. That taste was like nothing in the world. Except Angel's blood, which he'd only tasted twice – once from Dru's lips. It occurred to him that there was nothing stopping him from biting Angel now, and he froze. There was nothing stopping him from fucking Angel now, either. How many times had he wondered what it would be like to part those powerful thighs and slide inside him, instead of the other way about? He'd be tight as fuck – Spike doubted anyone else had ever been permitted that privilege either. What a triumph it would be to make Angel come like that. To make Angel say please.

But he couldn't. It felt wrong. Spike damned the soul again, and returned to the task at hand – getting Angel's cock wet enough to slide inside him. It wasn't as though it were a hardship. In fact it was a wrench to pull his lips away, but it was worth it to straddle Angel's hips, teasing him, and then slowly take him in.

The angle was strange. Spike realized he'd never been on top of Angelus before, and smothered a laugh. He'd rarely had his hands free, either. It was a luxury to run his fingertips along the muscles of Angel's arms as they shifted, to trace his bruised ribs – he was still too bloody thin, despite having drunk a small hospital since his return. Greatly daring, Spike lifted a finger to trace the outline of Angel's jaw. And Angel let him. Leaned his cheek into the touch, even, and his eyes flickered shut.

More than the angle was strange. Something was missing, and Spike realized what it was. There was no pain. There had always been something, even if it was just the sweet tearing of being fucked hard and fast, the pinch of callused fingertips on his nipples, the sharp fangs sinking into his throat from behind. And that was when Angelus was in a gentle mood, still half asleep in a featherbed, calling for Spike and Dru to wake him up properly and for god's sake fetch him and Darla some coffee. Or late at night, sated with the blood of their victims, pushing Spike to his knees in some trashed drawing room. Angelus grinning by the light of a flickering candle in some nun's cell while she tried to scream, saying "be good, now, boyo, and I'll let ya lick me clean."

That was another thing. The room was deathly quiet. He hadn't realized how used to gasps and pants he'd gotten, and the crescendo of a heartbeat. Now there weren't even words. Only the tiny grunts of need that escaped him, the slap of their flesh meeting as Spike rode Angel harder. He felt full to bursting – it had been a while – but it wasn't enough. Angel was still too far away.

And passive. His hips moved up into Spike, his back arched under the touch, but he didn't reach out to touch Spike, or himself, and his eyes stayed closed. Spike wondered again who he was thinking of, but he pushed the thought away. He was here, now, and Angel was buried deep inside him, and he would take what he could get. Spike grabbed his own cock, wetting his palm with the pre-come and jerking in time to the rhythm he created. He was so close now. He closed his eyes, pretending it was Angel's hand gripping him. Fuck knew it wasn't the first time he'd gotten off that way. His other hand was splayed on Angel's chest, as much to make sure he wasn't going anywhere as for balance. And then Angel's hips bucked up into him, once, twice, and he felt the rush of cool liquid filling him up as he came.

By the time Spike came back from the bathroom with Kleenex Angel had gone back to sleep, and when Spike dabbed awkwardly at the white splotches on his chest, he didn't wake.

Spike got dressed and went downstairs. There was no way he could drop off himself, not now. It was still daylight, but he could sit in the courtyard shadow, if he were careful.

Right now he couldn't quite remember why he ought to be.

He guessed that answered the question of would the soul stop him from doing it again. Jesus fuck, would he ever learn? Try to rape the girl of your dreams, because that's just what she needed after losing her mum, dying, and getting ripped out of heaven, ruin what's left of your life in the process, go get a bloody soul because of it, travel the bloody world trying to get away from your own shadow, then come back, rescue your mortal enemy and bloody well rape him.

How I spent my summer vacation, by William the Bloody. Although they were well into autumn now. Buffy would be wearing brown.

Spike lit a cigarette. If he was going to take up a career as a rapist, he reflected, he really ought to stop picking people who were stronger than him.

Not that Angel had tried to stop him. But Angel was out of his mind. More out of his mind than the out of his mind that he usually was. Now that Spike had a soul himself, he could feel a bit more sympathy with that. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt alone in his own head.

Except, of course, for the time that he couldn't forget because it had just bloody well happened, and now he was out here brooding about it. Angel was obviously catching.

He could hope. Because Angel, for all he was annoying as fuck and about as well balanced as the Pisa construction industry, was a bone fide hero. The kind Buffy needed – obviously. And if the soul wasn't enough to make Spike safe for her, he would just have to do it himself. Somehow.

He was gonna need all the help he could get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for editing suggestions to ladycat777 and herself_nyc

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the people at Band of Buggered Forums for clarification help.


End file.
